


Falling apart in reverse

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:48:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal wakes up on the floor, one foot up on the bed, sheets twisted around his ankle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling apart in reverse

Falling apart in reverse  
Neal/Peter, Peter/Elizabeth/Neal  
NC-17  
WC: 2,500  
A/N: This is all about sex. And feelings! Mind the rating. Dubious...morals? Sex? Non-linear storytelling. Excessive semi-colon abuse. :'(

 

 

 

 

**The end:**

Neal wakes up on the floor, one foot up on the bed, sheets twisted around his ankle. There’s dried come on his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth, and his jaw pops as he yawns. Peter is still sleeping on the bed, face turned away; Elizabeth is next to him, stockings ripped half off, mascara running down her cheeks.

“Ah,” Neal says, staring carefully at the ceiling, “that went well.”

 

 

 

**The beginning of the middle:**

Peter fucks into Neal slowly, as Neal pushes back, arching his back, left leg cramping slightly, folded up beneath his chest. “Jesus,” Neal hisses, feels the sounds drawn out between gritted teeth, short, stuttering gasps and moans wrenched from his chest with each deep trust.

“Don’t,” Peter says, voice strained. “I want to -- talk, talk to me. I want to hear you.”

It’s not surprising, exactly, that Neal wants to tell Peter how fucking good this feels, how big Peter’s cock is, how Neal wants to feel Peter come inside him, and all other kinds of filthy and embarrassing things --Neal is a romantic person, kind of, if cocks count as romance. The thing is, Neal doesn’t want to talk to Peter, not because he wants to turn this into some kind of anonymous thing, like Peter could ever be aware that he’s fucking anyone but Neal or that Neal could mistake that dick in his ass for anyone but Peter, but well.

All the things he wants to say sound all wrong in this context, with Peter pressing sweaty-slick kisses into Neal’s neck, Peter running his hands up and down Neal’s spine, curling and grasping at his hips hard enough to bruise; Peter whispering how much he loves Neal, how beautiful he is, how perfect he feels beneath him.

It’s ridiculous but true, that these things make Neal blush to the roots of his hair more than Peter’s tongue up his ass twenty minutes ago.

 

 

 

**The beginning:**

Holiday Inns are fucking hideous. Neal’s watched the black light inspections of chain hotels on CNN -- he knows what kind of nasty shit is on the bedspreads.

It’s just like the FBI to send them to the conference in the worst hotel chain Neal can think of. Not to mention that they were only booked one room, which made Neal’s stomach flip with horror at check-in. He even offered to pay for his own room out of pocket, but Peter only looked at him as if he thought Neal was crazy.

It’s only one night, anyway.

He flops onto the bed by the window feeling tired, hollowed out. Side-stepping sexual attraction to your partner for the better part of a year is hard work.

This thing between them feels electric, shockingly dangerous.

Peter makes a beeline for the tiny bathroom, mumbling about taking a shower to get the plane funk off him. All their clothes smell like stale plane air, bland airline food.

Neal closes his eyes and listens to the running water, thinks about Peter in the shower, soaping himself up, maybe using the lather to jerk himself off slowly, biting his lower lip to keep himself quiet so Neal doesn’t hear, maybe -- maybe using the lather to finger himself, slip one finger, then two, into his ass -- holy shit, Neal’s brain stumbles to a halt.

Oh God, he’s so very fucked.

 

*

 

Neal makes sure he’s out of the room by the time Peter finishes up in the bathroom.

He wanders around the lobby, the deserted pool, surrounded by damp, crumpled towels which makes him shudder. Neal’s afraid to know what’s happened in the pool. He’s reasonably sure chlorine doesn’t kill gonorrhea.

Neal slips out of the hotel and onto the sidewalk.

Chicago is not exactly beautiful, but it what it lacks in the grace of New York, it makes up for in spirit. There’s less urgency here, more personality, maybe. He lets himself fall into stride with a large group of college-aged kids talking excitedly about a movie they’d just seen. The voices wash over him, making him feel like a part of the group, if only for a moment. He walks along with them, close enough to the casual observer to look like part of the group, but far away that no one pays him any mind.

After a block, he breaks off, heads in the opposite direction. The good thing about not having a tracking anklet on is the sense of freedom he has now, the endless possibilities of the day are staggering, like a heady rush that he’s drunk on. Neal tilts his head back, squints his eyes against the sun, and lets himself be swallowed up by the limitless sky until he feels dizzy.

He’s still a liaison to the FBI, to Peter, and they work together often and effective enough that Peter felt it would be beneficial to go to this conference together. Neal let himself be talked into it because -- just because. He wanted to spend more time with Peter. He wanted to be alone with Peter. He wanted--

Neal doesn’t even know.

Peter’s the only thing keeping him, tethering him to one particular location. New York is home in a way, as loathe as he to admit it, but Neal’s never been afraid to cut ties and see what the world holds until now.

 

*

 

When he gets back to the hotel room, Peter’s already sprawled on the opposite bed sleeping, mouth open and snoring lightly.

Neal’s seen him in pajamas plenty of times before, but never asleep, face unguarded, allowing Neal to drink in the details greedily, watch the slow rise and fall of his chest and wonder what the skin of his throat tastes like.

His fingers itch, his clothes are too tight, his chest hurts, aches in a long-forgotten way. It’s been too long since he’s wanted anything he absolutely couldn’t have.

As quietly as he can, Neal toes off his shoes, strips down and pads towards the bathroom to wash the grime from the day away.

 

 

 

**The end of the beginning:**

 

They’re already running late.

Peter thinks Neal worries too much about how he dresses and Neal thinks Peter thinks about how he dresses far more than is healthy.

It’s something else entirely, disguised as sniping and they both know it.

“I didn’t even want to come,” Neal gripes, then instantly feels stupid. It’s not like Peter can make him do anything he doesn’t want to, not anymore.

Peter says as much before adding, “Besides, I thought we needed this.”

“Like couples counseling?” Neal asks, faintly horrified.

“No, not the conference, this.” Peter gestures impatiently between the two of them. “You, me, us.”

“Us?”

Peter sighs heavily, rubbing a hand over his face and retreats to the bathroom. “Never mind. Bad idea.”

Neal throws down his tie, giving up on his windsor knot. Fucking impossible, anyway, and follows Peter because Peter doesn’t get to start something and then walk away when it gets heavy or awkward, though his mind is screaming, _run, run away now_. It’s not exactly cowardice, Neal reasons, but it’s probably somewhere in the same neighborhood.

He stands at the doorway and hesitates. Peter’s in front of the mirror, staring back at him in the reflection, mouth tight and eyes impassive.

“This conference is bullshit, Peter,” Neal says softly. “What are we really here for?”

Honestly, Neal already knows, he just needs to hear Peter say it.

“You’re brilliant, Neal, the smartest man I know,” Peter says slowly, “but you’re being dense.”

Once his mind is made up, it‘s startlingly easy to operate on autopilot.

“Okay,” Neal says and takes the step across the bathroom to Peter -- it’s a tiny space and they were never very far apart at all, not nearly as far as he imagined.

Peter cups Neal’s face, thumbs the corner of his mouth and Neal feels his eyes slide reflexively shut. It comes as a surprise (but not really), when Peter’s mouth touches his, feather light and unbearably sweet.

Neal can let himself have this, only this, in their shitty room in Chicago.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat and deepens the kiss.

Mentally, he’s already composing his letter to Hughes, running through how he’ll stop liaising with the FBI, buy a plane ticket and get the fuck out of dodge. He’s basically breaking up with the FBI, which one doesn’t do lightly, but he doesn’t think he owes the FBI anything else. Neal has given too much to them for too little for too long and Peter, he owes too much to ever begin paying back, so what’s one more debt. He’s blowing his life up, ripping it apart from the inside out, all for the knowledge of what Peter’s lips taste like.

Peter stumbles into him, slides his hands up into Neal’s hair, and Neal leans into the touch, taking everything Peter has to offer.

 

*

 

They never do make it to the conference.

 

 

 

**The end of the middle:**

Usually, Neal’s a people watcher. He likes to imagine what their lives are like, to try to understand why they do the things they do, but this time, Neal can’t understand people, won’t even try. He can’t even understand himself.

He drinks his coffee and sits at the outdoor table, wrapped in the monotonous noise of the city.

Elizabeth slides into the chair across from him, a small overnight bag at her feet. “Hello, Neal,” she says conversationally, as if they meet up in strange cities all the time.

Neal wishes he could be surprised, but the one thing he’s learned about Elizabeth and Peter is they’ll never do what he expects them to. It used to be a quality he appreciated, but not when he’d like nothing more than to feel sorry for himself in peace.

“El,” Neal acknowledges.

“Peter called me, told me he woke up alone.”

“El--” Neal starts, panic worming it’s way into his gut, sick and anxious.

“He’s worried about you,” she says, leaning forward to touch his hand.

“What’re you doing here?” Neal asks curiously, refusing to acknowledge what she’s saying.

“I was nearby.” She makes a face. “I told Peter this was all wrong, this was the wrong way to go about it, but you know Peter.”

“I really, really don’t,” Neal says honestly.

She smiles slightly. “Better than you think you do. We should get out of here.”

“Back to Peter?”

She looks at him then, expression serious, probing. “Peter doesn’t cheat on me, you know.”

He didn’t know, but he does now.

Neal clears his throat awkwardly. “What was this, like, a trial run?”

“If you want to call it that.”

He gets up to follow her, face the proverbial music. If life has taught him anything, it’s that nothing is really free. “This is fucked up, El.”

She looks back at him, slips her hand into his and says, “Life always is.”

 

*

 

What Peter and El are offering is a relationship, no quick, dirty fucks.

It hurts more than it should.

Objectively, Neal knows why this is so painful -- he’s become used to being alone, he’s been alone the majority of his life, if he’s honest with himself.

He’s a gambler by nature; he likes the thrill, the risk, but somewhere along the line, he’s lost too many hands, lost too much and doesn't have the taste for it anymore.

Which is why he has no earthly explanation for why he kisses Elizabeth, pushes her back onto the bed and rips her stockings and panties with his teeth. His hands shake on her bra like a teenager. The stakes are too high.

Peter and El are too big of a prize to not gamble on, though.

He licks a path from the soft fold of her groin to her left breast, twirls his tongue around her nipple until she gasps.

Peter wraps a hand around his waist possessively, runs a hand down his ass while Neal fucks Elizabeth with his tongue until she shudders violently, squeezing his shoulders in-between her thighs until it aches.

He slides up her body, buries his face in the soft crook of her neck while Peter works two fingers into him carefully. Elizabeth holds him tight while Peter fucks him again, Neal’s cock slipping between El’s thighs, slick and wet.

It takes him by surprise, when he feels himself come, he mouths against El’s shoulder while she holds him and presses kisses into his temple, over his ear, his jaw. Peter comes after, cursing and shuddering above him with a deep thrust that Neal feels down to his toes.

Peter pulls out with an obscene sound that would embarrass Neal if he wasn’t so boneless, fucked out and exhausted. Warmth seeps out of him like a brand and he resists the urge to reach back, run his fingers through it, massage it into his skin where he’s sore and aching so that it becomes a part of him that he’ll always have, this moment when he’d utterly and truly wanted, loved.

Next time, maybe, he promises himself, if there is a next time.

Peter flops down next to Neal and El, grabs Neal’s hand, kisses his palm and lazily sucks two fingers into his mouth and Neal, too tired to fuck again right this minute, lets him.

Neal finally - _finally_ \- feels his brain shut off, the edges of his thoughts going fuzzy and soft. He curls his tired body into Elizabeth, muscles protesting, feels her fingers card through his hair, and allows it lull him to sleep.

 

 

 

**The beginning of a new beginning:**

They stuff their clothes into their bags carelessly, without bothering to fold them. Time enough for that later, they’ll work the massive dry cleaning bill into their budget next month, El says, yawning and sleepy.

Neal scans the room, the rumpled bedspreads, sheets spilling off the beds. Holiday Inns are nasty.

One day, when CNN does a special on this room, they’ll find lube and spunk everywhere, massive amounts of condoms in the small wastebasket, a torn panties and half a pair of stockings somewhere under the bed.

CNN will be able to trace the steps Neal, Peter and Elizabeth took to get to this moment, all the times they fucked, like a crime scene, like a movie in reverse.

Maybe they’ll see in the torn pillow case how much Neal wanted to tell Peter he loved him back, but couldn’t, not yet, but soon; maybe they’ll see the way Elizabeth kissed Neal’s eyelids while he was drifting off to sleep.

Maybe they'll conclude their special on a positive note, like this: how Neal felt, waking up with Peter and Elizabeth -- light, shining, impossibly happy.

 

 

 

**The end (of this story)**

 


End file.
